An Invitation to Sin (9 page)

"And what was that?" she whispered, edging closer.

The hair on his arms lifted. "She knew something," he made himself continue in the same easy tone. "Some sort of secret. I could see it in her eyes, and I just had this feeling that if I looked for long enough I would be able to figure it out."

"Did you figure it out, then?"

"No. And that's the thing; no one will ever figure it out. But we'll all keep looking and wondering."

For a moment Caroline looked at
him
. "That's what I've always thought great works of art should do. It's not the painting or the sculpture itself that matters; it's what the work encourages the viewer to feel."

If he'd tried to have this conversation with any of his siblings—even Eleanor—they would have laughed or come to the conclusion that the
Mono Lisa
must have reminded him of some chit he'd pursued. Not only did Caroline Witfeld listen, though, but she also understood. And at the moment, he very much wanted to kiss her.

"Oh, oh!" Sally Witfeld struggled to sit upright while her daughters piled a mountain of pillows behind her. "I saw… I had a vision that Lord Zachary was safe."

"He
is
safe, Mama," Violet said, patting her mother's hand. "He carried you upstairs."

"Such gallantry! Girls, isn't he gallant? And so strong!"

And he'd nearly broken his damned back
. Zachary stepped forward. Time to do his part for Witfeld family harmony. "I'm pleased to see you're recovering, and I apologize if I distressed you." He glanced sideways at Caroline. "The trip from London tired me more than I realized, and I badly needed some fresh air."

"Poor lad," Aunt Tremaine said succinctly behind him, but he ignored her. Except for Caroline and Anne, no one could hear his aunt anyway with all the commiseration going on, and they knew the real story.

He sketched a quick bow. "And now if you'll excuse me, I have a dog to see to."

That was only one of his tasks this afternoon. He also had to come up with a campaign to render seven—no, six—rather silly sisters marriageable.

Harold still pranced about the garden. He was easy to track; small piles of uprooted flowers followed a rough line around the entire perimeter. In the south corner, his valet tugged on one end of a branch while the dog yanked at the other.

"Reed!" Zachary called, and the valet straightened.

"My lord! This… I'm sorry, my lord, but if you insist that I continue to watch over this animal, I must regretfully tender you my resignation."

"What? Nonsense. You've dealt with me for years. A dog is—"

"My lord, with all due respect, I do not think that is a dog. It is a demon. And I—"

Awkwardly Zachary put a hand on his valet's bony shoulder. "No worries, Reed. Go inside and have a cup of tea; I'll see to Harold."

"I will understand, sir, if you don't want me to continue in your employ."

"I don't intend to speak of this again. Harold is in need of some instruction. I will give it to him, and until then any and all nonsense from the dog is my fault; not yours. Is that clear?"

"Y-yes, my lord. Thank you."

Once the valet had gone, Zachary looked down at Harold. "You nearly cost me a fine valet," he said.

Harold wagged his tail and woofed.

"Yes, that's all well and good, but we are going to get some things straight. Come along."

He patted his thigh, leading the way across the garden. When he turned around, though, Harold's face was buried in a loose pile of daisies.

"Harold, no!"

The dog looked up at him, wagging again. This was going to be interesting. He'd trained horses to race, but they'd already been broken to the saddle and knew right from left and how to trot and gallop on command. Harold obviously knew nothing about being a proper dog.

"Come here, Harold. Come." He patted his thigh again.

This time he wasn't even surprised when Harold rolled onto his back and kicked his feet in the air. Damnation. When Melbourne had told him to get a dog, he'd been so angry and frustrated that he'd gone to the first source he'd thought of: Lord Rothary and his hunting bitch, who'd apparently gone off with a neighbor's mutt. It hadn't even occurred to him that the unwanted pup would be completely untrained. So now he had two problems—an untrained dog, and a growing suspicion that his brother knew him far better than he would have liked.

"Let's go in, Harold. We'll try this again tomorrow, when I've had time to develop a training strategy." And in the meantime he would hope that the Witfeld sisters would be easier to manage than a half-breed hunting dog.

"What's this?" a deep, masculine voice drawled from a few stairs above her.

A shiver ran down her spine. "Preparations for your soiree, I would imagine," she answered.

"Isn't that eight days away?" His white cravat starched and tied to perfection and beautifully contrasting his dark brown jacket and deep yellow waistcoat, Zachary looked like he had just strolled out of one of the finest drawing rooms in London. Perfect, perfect, perfect. Perhaps they could skip breakfast, and she would have an extra thirty minutes to work with him. She scarcely remembered to eat when she became engrossed in her work, anyway. With an easy grin he leaned a hip along the ballustrade above her.

"Yes, but it's only four days after the soiree at the Trowbridge assembly rooms. Mama has to surpass every other event in Wiltshire this Season."

"This really isn't necessary, you know. I could say something."

"You'd only be insulting her." Fond as she was of her family, she found the entire thing maddening. She'd been handed an ultimatum, told that after this summer her family could and would no longer support her. And then she had to watch while the household spent a cartload of money honoring Lord Zachary and impressing the neighboring gentry even as they monopolized their guest to the point of preventing her from achieving her goal.

Of course her mother thought one of her daughters was bound to make a match with Lord Zachary Griffin, which would, of course, be worth the most extravagant effort and expense. And Caroline knew just as surely that Sally Witfeld was wrong. Ladies with much deeper pockets, more noble blood, and much more devious and practiced charms had undoubtedly been attempting the same thing for years—and obviously without success.

"MissWitfeld?"

She blinked. "Apologies, my lord. I was lost in thought."

He descended another step to lounge beside her. "About anything in particular?"

About dreams in danger of being dashed upon the rocks
. "About your portrait, of course."

Zachary grinned. "Of course. Your focus is admirable."

Though normally she would have considered that a compliment, she was fairly certain he didn't mean it that way. "I think I'll do you in full figure, rather than just your head and shoulders."

"I was hoping you hadn't been studying my hands for nothing."

His hands, his shoulders, his mouth… Caroline blinked. "Would you sit for me this morning?"

"Certainly. Your sisters won't mind?"

Oh, they minded, but they wouldn't defy the schedule on the first day
. "Not at all, I'm certain."

"Then after breakfast I'm all yours."

Drat. "
After
break—"

"Good morning, Lord Zachary, Caro," Sally Witfeld broke in, waving a hand at them. "What do you think? Mr. Henneker has yellow lilies."

As her mother approached, Zachary straightened, sketching his polite bow. "Yellow lilies sound splendid."

"Yes, I thought so. Now we'll need yellow ribbons to match. Or do you think white ribbons would be more elegant?"

White ribbons would look like a wedding. "Yellow, definitely, Mama."

"I was asking Lord Zachary, dear."

He cleared his throat. "Yellow would be more festive, I think."

"Good, good. Mr. Henneker is—"

"I think he's leaving, Mama." If her mother pulled Zachary into a conversation about soiree decorations, Caroline would lose all the morning light before she managed to get him into the conservatory. Moving quickly, she wrapped her fingers around his sleeve of brown superfine. "We were just going in to breakfast."

She gave a tug, and Zachary immediately fell into step beside her as Sally Witfeld went chasing after the florist. At least Caroline's subject seemed to be quick to catch onto things—though she'd begun to think that he simply enjoyed eating.

He slowed as they entered the breakfast room. "Has everyone gone to find decorations?" he asked, gesturing at the empty room. Not even a footman remained to restock the sideboard.

"Mama hasn't informed them of her color choice yet," she returned. From the quantity of food remaining on the sideboard, though, it appeared that most of her sisters had already eaten. Good. No one to make a request that might pull Lord Zachary away from sitting for her. "I'm sure they're on their way to town to purchase invitations or more bonnets or something." It sounded more tart than she intended, but she knew for certain that each sister was somewhere plotting how best to spend her allotted time with Zachary in order to net him as a husband. And the poor fellow hadn't a clue.

"All of them needed bonnets? Again?"

Caroline set an orange on her plate to accompany a slice of toast and cheese. "I expect you miss all the attention they pay you," she said as she took a seat.

Zachary stopped midway to dumping a half dozen slices of ham on his already heaping plate. "Well, that's a comment I can't respond to, isn't it?"

"What do you mean?"

He sat beside her despite the plethora of empty chairs in the room. "If I agree that I miss the attention, then I'm a conceited lout. If I protest that I'm pleased your sisters are elsewhere, then I'm an ungrateful lout." He took a drink of his tea. "Damn, I forgot the sugar."

"I'll fetch it."

Pressing her arm to keep her in her chair, Lord Zachary rose. "Nonsense. So which am I?"

"Beg pardon?"

"Conceited or ungrateful? Which am I?"

Caroline snorted, belatedly covering her mouth. "A question I can't answer, I'm afraid."

"You are correct. Not if you want my image to grace your painting." He crossed behind her, putting the sugar bowl between them. "Sugar?"

She'd already added a lump but found herself nodding anyway. "One, please."

He complied, hardly splashing any tea over the rim of her cup. He would never be successful as a hostess. Neither, though, would she; the ability to gracefully arrange biscuits seemed the height of absurdity. She watched as he dumped one, two, three lumps of sugar into his own brew, tasted it, and added another.

"May I ask you a question?" he said, setting the sugar bowl away from his elbow.

"Of course." Caroline made a show of buttering her toast, but in truth she felt terribly distracted this morning. She could blame it on the two coming soirees, or the fine weather, or worry over the looming deadline in Vienna, but she wasn't a believer in fooling herself. She was distracted by the tall, dark-haired man beside her who was currently shoveling bites of ham into his mouth as if he expected never to see food again. How could she draw his hunger for life?

He swallowed a mouthful. "Your interest in painting. Is it something you realized recently, or have you always known you wanted to be a portraitist?"

She listened for the usual condescension or snide humor, but it seemed completely lacking. Zachary Griffin's interest was apparently sincere. "I've always loved to draw and paint. Papa arranged for me to have a tutor, but that was after I took it up on my own. I'm afraid the old nursery room walls will never be the same."

He chuckled. "When did you decide that painting would be your profession, rather than something you did for personal enjoyment?"

For a moment Caroline glanced at her hands. "Are you of the school which believes a woman's sole duty is to marry and have children?"

"Did I say anything of the kind? You're very testy for someone who supposedly needs to show patience and meticulous attention to detail in order to be successful."

Despite the intentional baiting, she doubted he would appreciate hearing her undiluted opinion. She'd seen him attempting to train his dog yesterday. He had no patience at all. "You are very trying."

"So I am." He cleared his throat. "I admit, what I'd really like to know is if you'd had your Season in London, would you still wish to be a painter?"

"Would you ask the same question of a barrister or a barrel-maker?"

"If I was curious about the answer, I might."

"Hm. Let's just say, then, that this is another question I can't answer, since I wish to put your image on canvas."

He laughed, the sound surprising in its easy merriment. "That's clear enough. I've seen that look in my sister's eyes, though usually it's followed by her attempting to box my ears."

For the first time Caroline thought it might not have been so terrible to have a brother in the household— though at the same time she was forced to admit to herself that she did not look at Zachary Griffin in a brotherly manner. Not in the least.

According to Zachary's brother Charlemagne, Miss Witfeld would be a bluestocking—or, rather, a
damned
bluestocking. Shay liked educated women, but Caroline's intense focus probably would have disconcerted even him.

Zachary eyed her as she bent her head over her sketch pad and drew some part or other of him. A strand of her auburn hair fell forward into her eyes, and she absently blew it out of her way. He wanted to curl it back behind her ear with his fingers. No, she didn't look like a bluestocking, or at least not what he would expect one to look like; she had a tall, slim figure and lively green eyes, and a wit that definitely kept him, a master of quips, on his toes.

But in other ways, her species was unmistakable. She spurned the idea of marriage and seemed to view the idea of having a London Season with nothing less than contempt. Most telling of all, Caroline Witfeld wished to have a career that would render her financially independent.

She glanced up, catching his gaze. Swiftly she returned to her sketch, but not before he glimpsed the amusement in her eyes. "There's no reason you can't move again today," she said, erasing a line with the tip of one finger. "You're going to strain your eyes, trying to look about like that."

"Fine." With a breath he sank back against the window seat. "I'm only trying to help."

"Haven't you been painted before? Beechey or Lawrence?"

"Apparently I sat for Joshua Reynolds when I was two years old. Sebastian says I piss—" He cleared his throat. "According to the tale I didn't behave myself very well."

"I see. Well, now you're a bit older, and you may move about. I want to get a sense of movement from you, anyway. Muscle and bone."

He flexed an arm beneath his jacket. "All I see is my clothes wrinkling."

"I can also see the places where your clothes don't wrinkle."

Zachary began a quip, then closed his mouth. Still, he could push things a little—no one could be that oblivious to attraction. "You've seen your own bare arms, I assume. Does that help you in your paintings of women?"

"Yes, of course, but—"

Standing, he slid the snug-fitting jacket from his shoulders and dropped it onto the window seat.

"You can't—I—put that back on!"

Keeping a solemn expression on his face, Zachary unbuttoned his shirt cuffs and began rolling up his sleeves. He couldn't resist baiting her; with her serious mask and serious goals, she made it so damned easy. "Don't worry; I won't strip." He grinned. "Unless you ask me to, of course."

She stood, backing away. "I must insist, Lord Zachary. This is not appro…"

He pretended to ignore her protest, though he heard every syllable of it—and the changing tone of her voice. And he abruptly realized that he'd opened a very complicated basket of oranges. As he rolled his sleeves to his elbows and sat again, she set aside her sketch pad and approached.

By stripping his arms bare he was inviting her to view him as the model for male perfection. He didn't consider himself a slouch by any means, and he'd never had any complaints from female acquaintances, but Caroline Witfeld was an artist. A talented one, from what he'd seen. She studied the human form more critically than the average chit.

And aside from that, he'd developed an odd and uncharacteristic attraction toward her, and he'd promised his aunt he would behave himself—which in his mind meant that Caroline would have to make the approach. He lowered his lashes and looked up at her.

"I've always wondered," Caroline said, stopping in front of him, her gaze on his arms rather than his face, "why females are encouraged to show their arms and their throats, and men are expected to cover nearly every inch of themselves with cloth."

"Honestly?" he returned, studying the open, interested expression in her pretty eyes. "Women are on display; men are doing the shopping and purchasing."

Slowly she reached out to run a finger along the outside of his hand, past his wrist and up to his elbow. "I suppose you're right," she said, "but I'm discovering that there is something to be said for a revealed mystery over an overly exposed stretch of skin."